


breathe into my hands; i'll cup them like a glass to drink from

by inber



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Come Shot, Discovery, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone is of age, First Time, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, Kaer Morhen, Kink Discovery, M/M, Messy, Porn with Feelings, Protective Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Witchers, Spit As Lube, Sweat, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24899581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: Outside the moon hung like engorged fruit, dripping with summer light. Too bright. Geralt squeezed his eyes shut and hated the pupils that he had yet to govern correctly. He was eighteen – nineteen? Fuck, he couldn’t remember – but here he was, bedfellows with bad dreams and weaknesses.“Nightmare?” Eskel’s voice was little more than a whisper, but Geralt flinched at the sound of it anyway. He hadn’t heard his best friend’s awakening. Thought he’d been quiet enough to prevent it.“Sorry.” Geralt said, shame curling within him.“Geralt.” Eskel sighed. “What have I told you? I don’t care what the masters say. I get the dreams, too.”Or: Geralt has a nightmare, and Eskel provides comfort that turns into something more.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 44
Kudos: 317





	breathe into my hands; i'll cup them like a glass to drink from

**Author's Note:**

> I'd just like to make a quick note that Geralt and Eskel are young Witchers still training in this fic, but both of them are 18/of age.

Geralt’s eyes shot open.

He’d made no sound this time, he was sure. The staccato beat of his pulse lingered in his throat. Taking a lungful of breath, slowly, like a draught of fresh water, he worked to moderate it as he’d been trained. Visualise it; the muscle flexing, relaxing, obedient under his control. He was a witcher. He had to have _control_.

The thin bed-sheet clung to his body, second-skin with sweat. Geralt felt the tremor of his muscles and hated the betrayal of his body. He couldn’t even recall the fucking nightmare. Only the sense of it lingered wraith-like, spectres of his trauma haunting the small room he shared with Eskel.

Outside the moon hung like engorged fruit, dripping with summer light. Too bright. Geralt squeezed his eyes shut and hated the pupils that he had yet to govern correctly. He was eighteen – nineteen? Fuck, he couldn’t remember – but here he was, bedfellows with bad dreams and weaknesses.

“Nightmare?” Eskel’s voice was little more than a whisper, but Geralt flinched at the sound of it anyway. He hadn’t heard his best friend’s awakening. Thought he’d been quiet enough to prevent it.

“Sorry.” Geralt said, shame curling within him.

“Geralt.” Eskel sighed. “What have I told you? I don’t care what the masters say. I get the dreams, too.”

Geralt made a minute snort. “I’m their prized project, Eskel. I’m not supposed to be flawed like this.”

He heard the rustle of Eskel’s sheets, the near-silent sound of bare feet on stone floor. Automatically, Geralt shifted, making room. It had been a long time since they’d shared a bed during the night, but it was an old, comfortable habit that neither of them felt strange about revisiting.

They were much larger now. Eskel tucked in behind Geralt, uncaring of the heat and the sticky sweat. Bare skin-on-skin stopped Geralt’s shivering almost immediately. He was too grateful to feel disgusted at himself.

“You’re no one’s project.” Eskel murmured, hand on Geralt’s hip. “I can’t pretend to know what the extra trials were like, Geralt. And I won’t. But you aren’t a fucking failure, alright?”

Geralt kept his eyes closed, breathing in the comforting scent that was Eskel; leather and crushed grass-stems. The faintest trace of citrus. He’d been stealing oranges from the kitchen again.

“You should share if you’re going to make off with fruit from the pantries.” Geralt complained. It was a change of topic, deliberate.

Eskel twitched behind him, and then pressed his face into Geralt’s back, chuckling. “That was _days_ ago. And a dip in the springs, since! Your nose is getting better.”

“Pity for me, truly. You fart too much.”

“I’m not the one that has to be reminded to visit the baths, you stench-lord.”

Geralt snorted mirthfully at the stupid nickname, and jostled back into Eskel, who resisted the push of him. “Take that back.”

“ _You_ take it back.” Eskel was grinning.

“You’re such an idiot.” Geralt said, relenting in their struggle. Eskel collapsed heavy against him, arm thrown across Geralt’s chest.

“And you’re friends with me.” Eskel pointed out. “We are judged by the company we keep.”

Geralt winced. “Maybe we should stop favouring Lambert, then.”

The two of them laughed quietly beneath the sheets, thinking about the younger recruit. They had a fondness for the boy, all spite and pout though he was. Both of them saw an echo of their youth in his disposition.

Didn’t mean they were going to miss an opportunity to make him the butt of most jokes.

“What are you scheduled to do today?” Eskel asked.

Geralt frowned. “Fucking armoury duty, then fencing, then alchemy.”

“I have evening kitchen duty. Swap you for armoury.”

“Fuck off.” Geralt shuddered. “I’m allergic to peeling potatoes.”

“Yeah, s’what I thought.” Eskel said. Geralt was suddenly aware of the warmth of him at his back. It should have been uncomfortable with the weather, but he found himself curling further into it. The slightest tremor ran through him again.

“Eskel?”

“Mmm?”

Geralt hesitated. “They’re... the masters said I have another round to go. Last one.”

Eskel tensed. His hand tightened around Geralt’s chest. “They said that last time!”

“I know.” Geralt bit the inside of his cheek. “It’ll be okay. I got through the other shit just fine, didn’t I?”

“When?” Eskel’s voice was low and hoarse.

A long pause. “Three days.”

“Fuck, Geralt.” Eskel’s hand curled into a fist. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Geralt tried to feign nonchalance, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. “Doesn’t matter that much.”

“’Course it fucking _matters_.” Eskel said, words a rush, “It matters to me. They said you were _done_ , they said—”

“They say a lot of things, Eskel.” Geralt couldn’t hide the bitterness in his voice. “Doesn’t mean shit. You know that.”

A ragged breath blew against the back of his neck. Eskel tried to relax again, nosing into the side of Geralt’s neck. “I know.” He admitted, “I just... you’re important, Geralt. Nothing can happen to you. It _can’t_.”

“It won’t.” Geralt soothed, placing his hand over Eskel’s. “I’ll be sick for awhile, then... I don’t fucking know. Maybe I’ll grow bat wings.”

The levity was lost on Eskel. “I’ll take care of you after.” He whispered.

“Yeah, I know. You always do.” Geralt’s fingers squeezed around Eskel’s. He turned his head on the pillow. Eskel’s gaze was fierce in the glow of the night.

Geralt found himself quite unable to look away. He swallowed thickly, watching as Eskel’s eyes gradually turned soft, questioning. Geralt nodded almost imperceptibly.

The brush of Eskel’s lips against his own was a warm, delicate feeling that sent Geralt’s stomach effervescent. They kissed clumsily, negotiating a rhythm, navigating the taste and touch of one another with hesitance that rapidly turned eager. Geralt let a moan roll up the column of his throat and Eskel made a greedy sound, teeth grazing in a nip.

They broke for breath, both racing with the newness of it all and dizzied by a flush of hormones. Geralt could count the number of times they’d fooled around on one hand: flicking towels at one another post-bath; pursed, closed-mouth kisses on dares; the soft sound of mutual masturbation in a dark room, not to be spoken of in the morning. _This_ felt different.

Eskel was shuffling back slightly, away from the curve of Geralt’s rear. Almost unconsciously, Geralt chased the contact, making a low sound of needy discontent. As they touched again, Geralt could feel Eskel’s cock growing hard beneath the cloth of his smallclothes. He was filling, too, twitching and eager for his best friend.

“Fuck.” Eskel gasped, grinding his cotton-clad dick into the cleft of Geralt’s arse.

“Eskel,” Geralt whimpered, reaching down to palm himself, “I— _please_.”

A low growl of response made Geralt tremble. Hastily, he undid the ribbon of his underwear, tugging them down. His cock sprang gratefully free, full and throbbing against his stomach.

Eskel’s lips found his again, and Geralt groaned into the kiss as he rocked back into the impressively thick length behind him. He’d seen Eskel naked before, of course, but never aroused. Never like this. In truth, he wasn’t sure what to do. He just knew that whatever they were doing felt _good_.

Behind him, a fidget of fingers as Eskel tugged down his own smallclothes. Geralt felt the heat of Eskel’s cock, then, skin-on-skin as it nestled in the crack of his backside. He rocked backwards minutely. Men fucked like this, didn’t they? There was more to it, Geralt knew that, but it wasn’t as though they were taught specifics. Most of his knowledge came from anatomy books curiously studied in dark corners of the library.

“Eskel,” Geralt begged again, “Fuck.”

“Yes,” Eskel didn’t know what he was agreeing to, his senses filled with everything Geralt. “ _Fuck_ , yes.”

Eskel’s grip grew harder on Geralt’s hip as he ground quicker, the both of them panting. Unexpectedly, his cock nudged lower, between the sweat-slick press of Geralt’s thighs, smoothly breeching the flesh there.

A gasp, as Eskel pushed again, his hand reaching between Geralt’s legs, knocking the other man’s fingers away. Pressing tighter, Eskel grazed up the length of Geralt’s twitching dick with curious fingers, and then back down to feel his own cockhead peeking beneath the weight of his friend’s balls. Precome pulsed in a dribble to mix with the summer sweat between them.

“Is—” Eskel’s voice was strained, “Geralt, fuck, is this—”

“Yeah,” Geralt moaned, reaching behind him to encourage Eskel, hand on his arse, “Keep— _yes_ , keep doing that. Eskel, _please_.”

Drawing his hips back, Eskel pumped through the tight press of Geralt’s thighs, guided by instinct. It felt indescribably good, better than the sleeve of his own hand, better than a quick rut against bunched-up bedcovers. He withdrew his touch only to spit into his palm, and then he resumed his grip around Geralt’s cock.

Geralt rolled his head back against his best friend’s shoulder as their sweat-slick flesh slapped together in an quickening rhythm. His mouth went slack and he moaned – too loudly, he realised – and Eskel’s free hand slunk around his head, clamping over his lips. Geralt breathed hotly into it, grateful.

“Shh,” Eskel instructed, never slowing momentum, “Fuck, be quiet. That’s it, be _good_ , fuck, be good—”

A whine soaked into his muffling palm. Eskel pressed his own mouth into Geralt’s shoulder, grunting as the heat and pressure around his pistoning cock began to build up, overwhelming. He thumbed the ridge of Geralt’s trembling cockhead, knowing that he liked that, and wondering if his friend might, too.

Geralt did, very much. He convulsed in his best friend’s arms, the throb of blood in his dick a precursory warning. Eskel stroked him firmly as Geralt came in a plentiful rush, his shout of pleasure controlled by those fingers at his lips. Moments later, Eskel stiffened against his back, holding tight to Geralt’s body as he spilled quick and wet between Geralt’s legs, adding to the hot mess. Eskel gasped and grunted against his best friend’s shoulder.

It took some time for Geralt to regain control of his senses. He was vaguely aware that Eskel was still holding his gradually softening cock, still twitching and big between his slick thighs. Both of them were shivering. 

Geralt had no idea what to say. He didn’t know an orgasm could feel like that. He didn’t know why Eskel’s words had sent him reeling. As his breathing and heart-rate slowed, Geralt bit his lower lip and almost protested when Eskel withdrew from the messy sheath of his legs.

Gently, he felt cloth scraping against his front, cleaning some of their shared come. Eskel’s smallclothes. He wanted to turn around and face his best friend, but he was scared he’d see regret on the other man’s face.

What if Eskel didn’t want to do that again? What if it had been a mistake? What if—

“That was _amazing_.” Eskel’s low voice broke the silence. A rough chuckle. “I, um, hope it was for you, too?”

Trust Eskel to rescue him. Geralt relaxed. “Yes. _Fuck yes_ , it was.”

“Good,” Eskel nuzzled into his neck, and Geralt pricked all over with the small affection “’Cause I really liked it.”

“I’ve never come so fucking hard.” Geralt blurted, and then winced with the admission.

“Me neither.” Eskel whispered.

Geralt closed his eyes. He breathed deeply, liking the scent of his pleasure twined with Eskel’s. “Stay?” He asked. “I know it’s warm, but...”

“Of course.” Eskel said. He shuffled, trying to get his head comfortable on the shared pillow. “Can’t guarantee I won’t want a repeat performance, though.”

Geralt grinned to himself in the private darkness. He stroked delicately along Eskel’s arm. The nightmare and the threat of the trial seemed so far away.

“ _Good_.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I can be found on tumblr @inber if you're on that hellsite, too.


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